


Deseo

by TheStraggletag



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Brave Belle is Best Belle, Canon Divergent, Dark Castle Rumbelle, F/M, RSS 2018, Rumbelle Secret Santa, Rumbelle Secret Santa 2018, SOOO WOOBIE, Set in FTL, magic shenanigans, woobie dark one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 01:55:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17132852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheStraggletag/pseuds/TheStraggletag
Summary: There can be nothing more dangerous for a creature of self-denial than the human propensity to desire.





	Deseo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beastlycheese](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beastlycheese/gifts).



> Written for the Rumbelle Secret Santa 2018 event in tumblr. Prompt: The sorcerer in my wardrobe.

Rumplestiltskin knew that Belle hadn't much trusted him those first few weeks of their acquaintance. Like the smart girl she was she took everything he said with a grain of salt, including his promise never to intrude on her personal space, meaning her bedroom and connecting bathing chamber. He meant it, of course, but she had no way of knowing that at first. Just the thought of intruding on a lady's intimate space was enough to make him feel the phantom pain of Aunty Brie's infamous ear pulls, which he'd earned often as a child for any number of transgressions. They'd been used mostly as a way to teach him proper manners- which he'd sorely lacked, having been raised by someone like his father- and he could not say they hadn't worked, taking into account that even after taking on the power of an amoral dark entity he abided by most of his aunties rules, which included the respectful treatment of women and, very specially, their personal space.

After a while Belle had begun to see the man behind the monster, or whatever was left of him, and so had also begun to pick up on his behaviour and the rules that regulated it. She grew, gradually, distressingly trusting and dangerously carefree in his presence, which had the horrific side effect of making _him_ lower his guard too. He'd caught himself lightening her chores with magic, asking her to prepare meals he knew she favoured and sometimes letting slip information about his day or his life that he hadn't meant to share. He hadn't realised before how potent and heady intimacy was, and how good Belle was at creating it, at weaving some sort of magic-less spell around the castle that made it feel... homey.

Unacceptable.

Belle had grown so comfortable around him that she no longer felt the need to lock her room. Of course they both knew that keys and locks meant nothing to him, but still it had made her feel safer to lock her room at night and whenever she wasn't in it, and he didn't begrudge her that. But around the time that thief had escaped with one of his fairy wands his little maid had stopped using the key to her bedroom at all, and now even ventured out sometimes at night, for a bit of warm milk or a few cookies when she couldn't sleep. Sometimes, if she caught him in the wee hours of the night spinning, she'd sit by him and keep him company, and though he had made feeble attempts at scaring her away he'd been soundly unsuccessful.

His entire history with Belle seemed marked by failure, and by the slow realisation that he may be king of the castle, but she was queen and her authority superseded his. Thankfully- and the Dark One liked to whisper this mockingly- she was magnanimous in victory and exerted a benevolent and gentle dominion over him. She was a most kind, unassuming mistress, and he would've believed her almost completely unaware of her power over him if he didn't catch her giving him gentle, almost imperceptible commands every now and then, disguised under layers of politeness and courtly manners.

_'And how you like it, dearie, how your little peasant heart quivers whenever she deigns to order you about, how your skin flushes and prickles with the sheer ecstasy of it.'_

The Dark One had always been mocking, and good at zeroing in on his weaknesses. But after centuries he'd learned mostly to tune it out, to disregard the little voice inside his head to the point it was almost impossible to hear. But since Belle had come to live at the castle, the voice had discovered a new weakness, one it could exploit better than all the others. It had become extremely vocal as a result, which had put Rumplestiltskin in an awkward position more than once, whispering things in Belle's presence that made him glad he could not blush as obviously as normal humans could.

His little maid was beautiful, he admitted it freely. Beautiful in an unaffected, natural way that was difficult to replicate, that eluded most noblewomen he'd met. But to him it was no different than admiring a beautiful tapestry or a masterful statue. Over the years he'd become a bit of a hoarder for beautiful things, as well as powerful magical objects. Acquiring Belle had been like acquiring a fine painting, with the added bonus that the would have a noblewoman to order about. Though the later hadn't panned out, the former still stood. There was nothing but detached admiration for her, whatever the Dark One wished to imply was nonsense.

And though his deal hadn't quite worked out the way he'd envisioned it, he had to agree he wasn't displeased about it. It felt disturbingly good to have someone trust him, and do so as freely and as wholeheartedly as Belle. So he did what he could to make her want to stay, which included never setting foot in her bedroom. So of course it was that room where the Arabian Raghba beetle he'd just acquired had decided to scurry off to after escaping confinement. His latest potion called for freshly-grounded Raghba beetle wings, which was why he'd had to trade a dubious lamp merchant for a live one. The creature, as if sensing its impending doom, had somehow knocked over the glass jar it had been in and flown right out of his tower room.

Fortunately, because of its unique magical nature the beetle gave off a distinctive aura that was easy to track, and so he had followed the bug's frantic journey all over the castle till he'd reached his maid's bedroom door. She was working in the gardens, taking advantage of the perfectly mild weather he certainly not conjured up for her after noticing she was looking a tad pale as of late. Even so, he hesitated. Finally, pushing aside the disappointed voices of his aunties in his head and his silly, stupid fear that Belle might somehow find out and be upset with him- _'You're king of the castle, dearie, act like it'_ \- he opened the door and ventured inside.

It was both exactly how he imagined it- _'And you have, haven't you dearie? Pictured it so many time during the long, lonely nights...'_ \- and different. The stone walls were a creamy shade of amber, different from the dull grey of most of the castle- it was certainly playing favourites- and the furniture was a deep rosewood colour. There was a vanity, a wardrobe, a bed and bookcases. Lots and lots of bookcases. But apparently not enough for his little maid, as books were also piled up on all available surfaces, from the small rounded table on a corner to the chairs and ottoman around it. Apparently he had a second library in the castle and he didn't know it. He recognised most of them, some tales of fargone heroism and romance, other botany books and cooking manuals and even some of the coveted volumes of his fairy collection, which Belle was helping translate.

The room also smelt very nice. It was a light, citrusy smell, faintly flowery and oddly addictive. He often caught himself leaning close to his little maid while they had tea or spent a relaxing evening by the fire. It was different from the overpowering perfumes he tended to associated noble ladies with, and a vast improvement from whatever spicy swill Regina bathed herself in daily. He was often half-tempted to tell her she smelled like her mother, in the off-chance that might put her off the scent altogether.

He spotted some of the things he had gifted her peppered around the room- the glass ball that lit up so she could read well into the night had a place of honour by her nightstand, and the full-length mirror enchanted to be useless as a spyglass for whoever tried to peak was next to her vanity- as well as plants near the windowsills and in corners. Too many places for that little bug to hide, and no open window to indicate it might have escaped the room. Feeling only the littlest bit guilty- he was not snooping, he was looking for a priceless magical creature- he began to carefully search the room, trying to pretend he didn't feel his face heat up when he slid his hands across the duvet, flattening the fabric to make sure the beetle hadn't scurried under. He squealed most unbecomingly when he moved to feel under the many pillows only to come across Belle's nightgown, and the Dark One inside his head laughed uproariously.

He had just stuck his head inside Belle's wardrobe- it smelt citrusy too but also of lavender, which he knew she cut, dried, and packed into little pouches to hang with her clothing and tuck into drawers- when he heard her coming up the stairs. His senses were sharper that those of a regular human, which had cause a lot of discomfort before he had learned to control them. Acting on pure instinct, he hastily moved a couple of dresses to the side and snuck into the wardrobe, closing the door as much as he could from the inside.

The door remained ever-so-slightly ajar, allowing him to see what was going on. Belle gave no clue that she noticed anything was amiss, hands busy removing pins from her hair as she walked straight into the adjoining bathing room. Hoping against hope that the beetle wasn't there he made a move to exit the wardrobe when he felt a pinch on the back of his neck, and a buzzing next to his ear a moment later. He had enough presence of mind to pry open the jar he'd been carrying and trap the beetle as it attempted to hide between the heavier winter dresses. Raghba beetles were not venomous, though they did secrete a substance designed to alter people's minds, make them more susceptible to the reckless pursuit of their desires. They were, after all, creatures conjured up by djinns, bred for the express purpose of making humans careless when it came achieving their deepest desires, therefore turning them into easy prey.

The effect, however, was heavily dependent on temperature- the hotter it was the more effective the toxin- and was present in insignificant quantities until the insect matured. The little bugger that had escaped him was still too young to produce much of the substance, as evidenced by the colour of its hard outer wings, more green than gold. It was unlikely that the bite would do more than sting- and it was, as if he'd dropped a tiny drop of acid on the back of his neck. He was going to _relish_ turning the insect's pretty wings into powder. Maybe while the rest of it watched. _Yes._

His murderous thoughts made him almost miss the sound of water coming from the adjoining bathing chamber. The hour must have grown late without him realising, because he knew his little maid preferred bathing after cooking their dinner ever since she'd discovered the castle was able to keep everything piping hot and fresh. He'd struggled to grow used to the way she presented herself to dinner after that: hair still damp, usually in a neat plait, skin glowing and sweet-smelling, driving him to distraction. The whole thing felt too homely, too cosy, too intimate in a way he had never felt before, not even with his wife. It was Belle at her most beautiful, clad in her simplest dresses, unadorned but for the small pendant of her mother's she wore at all times, eating with him, sometimes even squabbling over the last piece of cobbler or the last glass of mead. Sometimes, when she was running late, she would wear her hair free and he'd get to watch it slowly curl upwards as it dried, fingers itching to touch.

He got so lost in his thoughts of a freshly-bathed Belle that he almost missed the real-life version enter the room again, clad in a burgundy dressing gown, which he remembered her unceremoniously commandeering for herself months back. He'd put up the requisite protest, a mere formality that he knew she didn't buy for a moment. He wondered idly when it became part of their dynamic, their little "master and maid" roleplaying sessions where he'd act as the overbearing master and she'd behave like the placating, demure maid she sure as Hell had never been. Though both knew the whole thing was a farce and had long since stopped pretending most of the time, he wondered why they kept at it.

He had to admit he did like it, in a strange way, specially because his little maid was quick of mind and sharp of tongue, and gave as good as she got. It was stimulating to argue with her, and strangely stimulating when he got to pretend to have any sort of control over her, specially since he could see behind her pretend layer of humility her impertinence, the affectionate sort of irreverence she held for him. Belle was naturally a kind and friendly person, so it wasn't hard for him to accept that she'd develop a fondness for him. One he'd fought hard against at first, and that he'd deny enjoying if anyone asked, but it seemed silly to lie to himself, specially hiding inside a wardrobe by himself.

It felt strange, all of a sudden, to be hiding. Hiding from Belle. Why would he want to do that? Belle was his favourite person, he wanted to spend _more_ time with her, not _less_. He was being silly, though there was a nagging feeling on the back of his head that something was not adding up, something was wrong. Shoving that the the side he burst out of the wardrobe, uncaring of how uncoordinated he looked as he stumbled out, almost colliding with Belle as she laid out one of her nightgowns on the bed- the very pale blue one with the small wildflowers stitched into the neckline and hemline. He remembered spending hours on those small flowers, even though he knew that he was unlikely to ever see her wear the garment.

"Rumplestiltskin!"

He could tell he'd startled her, because she seldom used his full name, preferring to shorten it to Rumple, a liberty she'd taken without consulting him, as though it was perfectly natural. Feeling strangely out of sorts and definitely out of balance he staggered a little bit closed to her, grasping one of her arms to right himself. Dimly he thought it was seldom that he initiated physical contact between them. Belle was very touchy-feely, deliciously so, and had seen right through his nonsense token protest when she'd first started touching him casually, as if there wasn't anything strange with a brush of her hand against his shoulder, the weight of her feet on his lap when they shared a settee, or even a peck on the cheek when he came back from a summons, or gifted her with something. He had grown accustomed to always be on the lookout for new books, pretty ribbons, amusing trinkets or whatever else might catch his little maid’s fancy, just for the chance of being chastely kissed in return. The idea of initiating contact himself had never even crossed his mind and yet it was all he’d ever wanted for what felt like ages. How silly not to have done it before. Whatever had stopped him?

“Are you alright? Rumple, you’re starting to worry me.”

He snapped out of whatever trance he’d fallen in, the concern in his little maid’s voice giving him pause. Was he alright? He certainly felt it, and told him as much, but she did not seem to believe him. Perhaps it was the manic sort of smile he could feel afixed to his face, quite a change for him, or the way he swayed in place, his hold on Belle feeling like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

He showed her the jar with the fluttering Raghba beetle inside, told her haltingly about the little bugger biting him and how things felt strange, even though he knew they shouldn’t. Damn thing was too small to cause any sort of mischief with his magical venom, he’d read plenty of books attesting to that.

“Oh, Rumple, that’s true in the case of regular humans.”

He frowned.

“But I’m the Dark One. If anything my magical tolerance to the poison should be higher, not lower.”

Belle bit her lip and for a second that was all he could concentrate on. Delightful little quirk of hers, that one.

“It’s… it’s your fairy nature, Rumple. Fairies are considerably more sensitive to the toxin than humans. It’s in the book I’m translating at the moment.”

When he’d given her the fairy tome on magical creatures of the desert he’d never really thought there would be new information in it. He’d certainly never considered. In the back of his mind a thought began to take shape, something about fairy nature and how it was rooted often on self-denial, which would make any sort of magical compulsion that targeted a person’s desires particularly worrisome.

“Come on, Rumple.” Belle’s voice was even softer and gentler than usual, keenly aware as she was of the sensitive topic of his fairy inheritance. Though he had hated her knowing at first, had made him feel exposed and raw, it was now a strange comfort, made him feel less alone. She herded him slowly to her bathing chambers, smelling strongly of orange blossoms and full of steam, the copper tub in the centre full of hot, unused water.

“You need to sweat it out. Come on, sweetheart, we need more steam. Can you make it happen?”

He wanted to please her, always, but he’d often fight himself over it, too scared to show her the extent of his foolishness. Now, however, it all seemed rather silly. With a wave of his hand the water started bubbling, fragrant new waves of steam coming off it. Belle produced an hourglass, flipping it so the grains began to fall.

“We need a full hour to get every bit of it out. Can you… can you change into something more comfortable?”

His first thought, his deepest wish, was to simply magic his clothes away and be naked. He rarely exposed his skin, easily changing from his nightshirt to one of his full outfits in the blink of an eye. The less he saw of his freakish skin the better, the less a reminder of the monster he was, the monster Bae had escaped from. But before he’d always enjoyed the freedom that came with shedding his clothes, remembered bathing in streams and spending hot days in the sun in nothing but his smallclothes as he tended his sheep, just one more half-dressed peasant in a village where people had bigger problems than to worry for a bit of exposed skin. He didn’t wish to embarrass Belle, though, and her noble sensibilities, so he conjured up a strip of linen around his hips, opaque and long enough to cover the basics.

“That’s it, just breathe in and relax. You’ll feel better in no time.”

She sat him down on a carved bench near a fogged-up window and made a move to leave him alone, but he made an unbecoming noise of protest and pull her against him. He did not wish to be alone, did not wish anything to separate him from his little Belle. He frowned when he felt the heavy fabric of her dressing gown against his skin, and a whisper of magic had her clad in the much more comfortable nightgown she’d left by the bed. It felt heavenly to lay his head against the finely-spun muslin, even though it easily became sticky with sweat after a few minutes. When his little maid tentatively began to stroke his head, pushing the damp hair on his forehead back,  he made a purring sort of sound, having trouble remembering when he’d last felt so content.

This is what he wished for the most, down to its bare bones: to be petted, cared for, fussed over in a loving manner. To receive love, and give love, a desire so basic and yet so unattainable. He lost himself in the moment, content at first with focusing on the way his maid’s hand felt against his skin, how soft her fingers were, the way her nails scraped against his scalp gently, eliciting a frisson of _something_ that travelled up and down his spine to settle between his legs. After a while, however, his hands began to wander, exploring the increasingly-wet fabric of the nightgown as it stuck against his maid’s alabaster skin, revealing the shape of her slowly, like a flower unfurling before his eyes. He felt like he was making up for lost time, for all those months were he had burned to touch her, itched until he could barely stand himself. And he couldn’t understand why he had denied the impulse at all, given how positively _marvellous_ it felt, specially once Belle started making noises, gentle sighs and barely-there whimpers that made him feel like he was playing a wonderful sort of instrument. He barely noticed when the strip of linen became loose and fell open, or when he became hard, so intoxicated he was on the feel of her.

It wasn’t until he pressed his nose against the apex of her thighs that he heard a noise that wasn’t of pleasure but distress, discordant and wrong compared to the rest. Tentatively Belle’s hands came to grasp his shoulders and push him back, and he could feel her stiffen beneath him, no longer soft and pliant. He retreated immediately, feeling like someone had doused him with cold water and pulled him back from a warm dream to the harsh reality of what he’d been doing: forcing his monstrous, unwanted attentions on Belle, like the horrid creature he was.

Belle was not to be distressed, or feel hurt of pain. Belle was made to feel good, that was his desire above all things.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

Reluctantly and with great difficulty he extricated himself from her, feeling the pang of loss as soon as he stopped touching her. But almost immediately Belle was following him, her hands reaching out to placate and comfort him, her voice shushing him as he attempted to babble an apology at her over the haze of the lingering toxin, the steam of the bath and the smell of orange blossoms in the air.

“Oh, Rumple, no, no. Hush.”

Grovelling came second-nature to him. He’d spent most of his life apologising for his existence in some way or the other. To his father, to his mother, to Milah. Bae had been the one exception, till he had let go of him, had let his hand slip from his and lost him. Afterwards his life had become about apologising to Bae for his shortcomings, for not being good enough. With Belle it had been different, but like always he’d mucked things up, made a mess like he always did. Like he’d been afraid to do ever since he’d realised he cared for his little maid.

“Darling, no, no, you didn’t do anything wrong. It’s not that, hush.”

He hadn’t realised he’d been speaking out loud, but Belle’s words made it obvious. Though he knew he shouldn’t he allowed Belle’s hands to wrap around his shoulder, taking the comfort he offered her, however unworthy he was of it.

“It’s not… you’re not yourself, Rumple. I can’t take what you offer when you do not do it willingly, however much I wish to.”

It took him awhile to make sense of her words, both because they seem to imply he was offering something he wouldn’t under normal circumstances or that she would eagerly accept him if she thought he was being earnest and not simply manipulated by the toxin of the beetle. Both ideas were ridiculous, of course, and he told her so. Told her of how he yearned for her, how he constantly had to make a concerted effort not to seek her touch, not to chase after it when she offered it so willingly. Told her of his dreams of her, shameful and wonderful and how he knew she was simply being kind to and old monster and it was disgusting how he reacted to such kindness. And after seeing still a glimmer of doubt in her eyes he finally pointed to the hour glass, the silvery grains of sand in it still, having long ceased falling. More than an hour had passed and though he could feel a lingering trace of the toxin- mostly a sort of difficulty to concentrate, a haziness that was slowly dissipating- the full effects of it were gone. The consequences of what the poison had made him reveal- to her, to himself- were all that was left of the bite.

The next minute stretched into what felt like hours. Every bit of him tensed, fighting his natural instinct to cower, to magic himself away from the awkwardness and the heaviness of the moment and later pretend it had never happened. But he owed it to her to remain, to face her. Even though she was naught but a little slip of a human, hair plastered to her forehead and sodden nightgown leaving her fully exposed, she held all the power and he was hers to make or unmake at will. She knew it too, he could see it in the way she too was tense, aware of her hold on him, and frightened of it.

“You… you want me?”

It was the trace of doubt in Belle’s voice that made him find his own, sputtering a squeaky little “Of course I do” before he could think better of it.

“I love you.”

He hadn’t meant to say it, hadn’t meant to let go of his last secret, the last bit of his soul he had kept tucked safely away. But Belle smiled, gentle and dazzling and happy, and the spark of panic sputtered and died before it had the chance to roar to life.

“I love you too.”

He had seen love be used as a tool before. Had seen his father dangle the promise of love in front of him to get him to do what he wanted, had seen Milah use it to beat him with, to shame him into accepting whatever would please her, had learned the lesson all over again with Cora. But Belle had readily gave up the power that came with it, had not seized the chance he had laid out in front of her so foolishly. She’d given it up like it was nothing, and somehow it made it _more_.

He saw the spark of it in her eyes- bravery, like he had glimpsed when they’d first met- before she moved, gathering her nightgown around her waist and swinging a leg over his waist, mounting him. He made an indecent sound, something stuck between a growl and a whimper, and wrapped his arms around her waist, his nails catching on the muslin covering her back. He forced himself not to move an inch, acutely aware of the way she had practically impaled herself on him. She was tense above him, her face hidden from him, her breathing harsh and uneven. Finally, after what it felt like forever, she moved. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, her body slowly melting into his. He wanted to berate her for her foolishness and offer comfort, but there was no way he could talk when he felt the warmth and tightness of her cunt around his cock, so he settled for nuzzling her hair and cooing soft nonsense into her ear, hoping it was enough.

It wasn’t until she started moving, tentatively beginning to thrust, that he realised she was wet, his cock sliding slightly in and out of her with an ease that made him aware she was sleek and open, aroused even after the initial pain of penetration. His hands tightened around her back, his hips responding to her artless, almost instinctual movements with ease, finding a rhythm between the both of them that had him biting back obscenities in minutes. Faintly he wondered if she had ever read about coupling, or if this was knowledge her body had always had, in some way, some natural cadence designed precisely to ensnare him and rob him of all traces of coherent thought. With the last shreds of sanity and reason he had left he pushed his orgasm to the side long enough to hear her whimpers turn to mewls and then to needy cries, to feel her cunt tighten around his cock, and her muscles loosen in sheer relief. A second later his last bit self-control shattered and he poured himself into her, his head looking to bury itself in-between her breasts just as his cock looked to bury itself deeper into her cunt.

It took a while to come to his senses, to begin to feel something other than satisfaction and languid contentment. Belle’s weight was pleasant against his chest, the way she sought to plaster herself against him a reminder that what had transpired between them had been wanted, and there were no regrets.

Well, perhaps one regret. He was gonna have to find a new Raghba beetle. There was no way he could kill the one who had bit him now.


End file.
